


Obscure Sorrows

by BridgeToTheSky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Incredibly pretentious title, that I spent a good hour trying to find
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 04:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky
Summary: What are superheroes without costumes? Masks? Alter-egos and other halves?Just people, really.And all that that implies.The sad, the confused, the chemically-imbalanced and the disturbed.~A look into the domestic life of Bruce Banner and his girlfriend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah ... I've been going through stuff.

“Are you okay?”

 

This is a reversal of roles Bruce doesn’t like; once upon a time _you_ would have been the one asking those kinds of questions, the one with the head tilted, face contorting with concern. 

 

He doesn’t like either role, now that he thinks about it.

 

The bathroom door creaks a bit more as he pushes it further open, stepping in. 

 

Your body is submerged in hot bathwater, your breasts obscured by fragile soap suds. You blow some away from your cupped hands, still not looking at Bruce.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

 

“Yeah …” You have the voice of someone who hasn’t spoken in a long while; cracked and quiet from lack of use.

 

Also the voice of someone who’s lying. 

 

It occurs to you how much of a lie this really is and you try to make it up for it by saying, “Or I will be - I don’t know. I’m fine.”

 

“That … kinda sounds like something someone says when they’re  _ not  _ fine, honey,” Bruce says. He crouches down to your level, a hairy arm leaning against the edge of the tub. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

No - but yes, all at the same time. _**Ugh**_. 

 

“I just … it does -”

 

“Stop,” Bruce says, reaching for your hand in the water. He grasps it underneath the suds, laces his fingers with yours, but you can’t see them. “Just … in your own words. Don’t try to make it sound correct.”

 

This releases a knot from your chest, and you take a breath, leaning against the back of the tub, against the pillow.

 

“I just … I _can’t_ stop. I’ve tried to stop, I _want_ to stop, but I can’t,” the words are coming out like someone has just removed a cork from your heart. “I want to stop, but I also _don’t_ wanna stop, y’know? It’s like … I want to keep thinking about it so I can be _prepared_ for it when it happens. Whatever ‘it’ is, it doesn’t even need or have a name - well, sometimes it does, and those times - oh, _god_ , they're the worst. The horrible. The awful. The - the absolutely impossible but it doesn’t matter that it’s impossible because it’s _me_ and it’ll somehow happen to me because the rules won’t _apply_ to me.”

 

You take a breath. Bruce hasn’t said anything; he only looks at you, sweet eyes, even sweeter smile tugging at his lips, head tilting, resting a chin against his arm.

 

You look at him, drowsy with misery. “I’m sorry I keep bringing you into my mind.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Your mind’s fascinating, what are you talking about?”

“You always tell me I’m going to be fine, and I trust you,” You continue, “but I can’t help myself. I keep thinking of new ways I’ll fuck up my life before I even _have_ one, and I’m just … so sick of being me, Bruce - I’m sorry that sounds selfish and ungrateful especially because you’re _you_ and you deal with what you deal with each and every day but I’m really tired, I just -”

You’re unable to finish your ramble (if it even had an ending in sight) because Bruce leans forward and hushes all your miserable hysteria with a kiss. 

He’s … He’s the ultimate balm; he tastes like the fresh strawberries and watermelon smoothies he’s been making, and his breath is warm while his tongue is cold. He lets out a tiny “mmmmm” sound as he smoothes his lips against yours, and it pulls a weak laugh from your aching, exhausted body. 

You wrap arms around his neck, water and suds soaking into his shirt, making it not-so-hard to pull him forth into the bath with you, where Bruce places a hand to the tiled wall and then another to the edge of the bath to steady himself, before allowing himself to fall against you. 

“I’m sorry -”

“Stop apologizing,” Bruce’s voice is husky and rushed; excited to get back to the kiss that he has removed himself for a millisecond to silence your pity party. “You make everything worth it; you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me; stop it.”

You do stop it, because to be honest you want him more than you could ever want a second more to imagine some horrid, disastrous scenario, and you tug at his shirt collar to bring him yet closer to you. Your eyes sting a little from tears that squeeze from your eye and down your cheek. Bruce smears them away with kisses to your cheek before he returns to your lips.

You smile so wide you’re sure you’re going to hurt later, and you pull away from him. You do it just to look. 

Just to look. 

Bruce is wet and kissed and droplets of water are falling from his curls to hit and slide off of your shoulders and the light from the bathroom highlights him and and and …

You feel anxiety blossom in your gut at the idea of doing something stupid, something foolish and pathetic and dangerous (and it will happen it will it _will **it will**_ ) and losing him.

 

The light that has been inside of you since Bruce put his lips to you begins to dim, and you want to scream.

  
You’re a mess.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not an expert on mental illness and would never pretend to be, just wanted to handle my neurosis in a positive way, and for me that's usually talking and writing.


End file.
